Why I'm Angry about Censorship

You’re going to have to indulge me today.

I know I tend to blog about funny things, sweet things,
ideas that make me happy and proud. I like that I have a sense of humor and can
make light of most things that happen in my oddball little life.

Today, however, is not that day.

I heard about Ellen Hopkins being uninvited to the Humble ISD Teen Lit Festival several days ago and the subsequent author withdrawals. I
should probably say here that I’ve never met Ellen, Melissa de la Cruz, Pete
Hautman, Tera Lynn Childs, Matt de la Peña, or any of the authors involved in
the festival. I don’t know them, but I like their work, I’ve heard that they
are lovely people, and I appreciate the fact that we’re all YA authors. I like that we’re part of an amazing writing community that, for lack of a more eloquent
statement, has each other’s backs.

I should also say that as far as censorship or book banning
goes, I haven’t really been affected by it. I don’t discuss the
complex subjects in my writing that Ellen tackles in hers, such as incest,
drug use, and abuse, but I know these issues exist, of course, and I’m grateful that we
have gifted authors who can write about them. In my case, I’ve received some angry emails from librarians,
teachers, and parents who didn’t like the number of f-words in my first book, “Audrey, Wait!”
I still stand by every word of that book, so I can handle those emails and politely respond to them. It’s a
small price to pay for being able to write the books I want to write.

Which I guess brings me to my point.

As authors, we can defend ourselves. We can say, “This isn’t
okay” when our appearances are cancelled (and they are cancelled far more often than you realize), when our books are banned, when concerned parents force them to be
pulled off library shelves. We can blog and protest and stand up for our right
to talk about difficult subjects. I’m not worried about us.

I’m worried about the readers.

Here’s who I can’t stop thinking about.

Let’s say there’s a girl in Humble, Texas. We’ll call her
Girl A. Let's say that she attends high school in
this town and, based on nationwide statistics, let's also say that she’s being sexually abused by her stepfather. Or uncle. Or
father. Or grandfather. Or whoever. And she hears about this author who writes
books about girls—about people—just like
her. People who are violated or addicted or hurt in ways that almost seem
irreparable. She has something with which she can identify, something that
makes her realize that she’s not alone.

And then her school district bans those books or keeps that
author from speaking to her.

Basically, they are saying to Girl A, "These things that happen to you? They are so bad that we can’t even talk
about them. And neither should you."

I can’t be sure, but if this school is like any other school
in America, they probably encourage kids to come to them with their
problems. Feeling suicidal/abused/hurt? Talk to a counselor. Troubles at home?
Let us know, we’re here for you. And yet when authors dare to raise these issues in fiction, to present
them in a way that’s safe and allows teenagers to discuss them, they’re shut
down.

I am not okay with this.

Writers don’t invent these problems; we reflect the world
that we see. For me, I find the humor in slightly bizarre situations. For other
writers, they find the dark things and they cast a much-needed light on them.
Personally, I would like to think that all of my readers have wonderful lives.
I want to think that they are adored and loved by the adults in their lives,
that they have strong role models, that they don’t need to numb themselves with
drugs or alcohol or razorblades. I know, however, that this isn’t true, and my
heart breaks for these kids. My heart breaks for Girl A in Humble, Texas.

What if Girl A hears about the adults that have kept Ellen or her books out of her school district? What if these adults were the ones
that Girl A thought she could confide in? Those parents, that librarian, that
administrator? What if she hears that they suddenly don’t want these
things—these terrible things that Girl A lives with every day and night—in their
schools, even in fiction? If these
subjects make adults so uncomfortable that they can’t even talk about them,
then who’s going to listen to Girl A when she finally has something to say?

This isn’t just about Girl A, though. This is about the kid
who can’t stop the suicidal thoughts, the girl who stays with her boyfriend
even when he doesn’t take “No” for an answer, that beautiful redhead who loves
meth almost as much as the guy who gave it to her, the boy who’s beaten by his
mother or bullied to the point where he can’t take it anymore.

Ideally, nothing bad will ever happen to these kids. But it might. And then
the newscameras will come, and the neighbors will be interviewed, and parents
will hug their children and they’ll say, “We didn’t know they were in so much
pain! Why didn’t they come to us? Why didn’t they say anything?”

Why? Because these kids thought that nobody wanted to talk
about it.

In reading about this book festival and its “uninvitation”,
I’m so, so thrilled to see the overwhelming outpouring of support from parents, teachers, and librarians in
the Humble area, as well as the greater literary community. These are people who are standing up against censorship, who are supporting a
writer’s choice to tackle these issues, who realize that kids deserve as much
of a voice as adults, no matter how difficult the subject. When you censor
ideas, you censor the kids in your community. You negate their feelings, their experiences, their lives, and that’s not okay.

It is not okay.